The Lingerie Designer Read online

  Sarah noticed that Helen was blushing again. She’d seen Helen blush more this morning than she had during her whole time working for Eden. Maybe this Asian trip would be interesting, in more ways than lingerie.

  “I have, and I’ve bought about six copies of it. I keep giving my own copy away.” The man smiled as he picked up a book and turned to walk away.

  “Easy gift then,” Helen teased.

  “Now she’s attempting to flirt with some randomer – gross,” Sarah continued to tap into her mobile.

  “Enjoy it!” the man called back to her.

  Helen decided to buy the book recommended by the elusive stranger and buy the one he had picked up as well – Perfect Health – both were by the same author. “Perfect Health – I could do with a bit of that,” she said, feeling Sarah’s impatience bore through her.

  At the till, Helen looked around for the New Age guru again, but there was no sign of him – maybe he’d be in the business lounge? She handed over a fifty-pound note for her purchases and got little change. Looking down at the coppers and crumpled receipt, she declared, “Definitely cocktail time now!”

  “Not a moment too soon.” Sarah exhaled loudly.

  Chapter 7

  In the Cathay lounge, Fred was stacking a plate high with food from the free buffet: smoked salmon, some kind of chicken on skewers, and prawns. He picked up bottle of Asian beer to wash it all down.

  “Move over, Fred – the female Tom Cruise coming through!” Helen joined him at the self-service bar. “Two Bacardi cocktails, coming up!” She scanned the countertop for ingredients.

  Fred stared as she poured a bizarre mix of fruit-juice and alcohol.

  “What?” she asked. “This is part of Sarah’s business training. I don’t want to do a half-assed job.” She swirled a swizzle-stick in the drinks.

  Sarah sank back into a soft cream-leather armchair. She spread her fingers over the buttery leather, and checked out the room around her. Neither Helen nor Fred appeared to notice the plush surrounds. They were carrying on as if they were in the office, back in North Row. She, however, was internally hugging herself. Sarah Ross had arrived. She belonged in this world of Rolex watches and Chanel suits. These were her people.

  Helen was walking slowly back to Sarah, looking like precision was of utmost importance, lest she spill a drop of alcohol.

  “Get that into you!” She handed Sarah the concoction, at the same time moving her elbow away from her torso to release a packet of crisps she had tucked away there. “How’s that for multitasking?”

  “Lovely in here, isn’t it?” Sarah said, taking a sip of her drink.

  “It’s grand. We used to fly first-class. Damn cutbacks.”

  “What’s the difference between business and first-class?”

  “Well, in first-class you get your own masseuse, Kristal champagne and Egyptian cotton pyjamas on boarding, for a start.” Helen sighed as she looked into her glass. “That was pre cheap Chinese-imported lingerie competition. I think the only people in the first-class lounge now are rock stars – and bankers of course.” She picked a cashew nut from a bowl on the coffee-table. “And probably big computer-company executives. And definitely Saudi oil tycoons.” Satisfied she’d covered the correct industries, she took a mouthful of her cocktail. “Wow, I may have been a little heavy-handed with Uncle Ron!” she exclaimed, making a contorted face, her eyes watering.

  “Uncle Ron?” Sarah asked.

  Fred, who had been making room on the small table for his food, cast his eyes to heaven. “She’s talking about Ron Bacardi. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to her cryptic use of the English language – in about ten years, that is.” He sat down and started flicking through the daily papers. “What books did you get, Helen?” he asked.

  Helen tore open a packet of crisps, threw some salted peanuts on top, then shook the bag to mix everything together. She glanced around to see if the charcoal-suited man was there, aware that what she was doing wasn’t exactly sophisticated. He was nowhere to be seen. The good-looking, emotionally-aware man had vanished. Proving she had been right all along – such a species only exists in fairytales.

  She took the books out of the plastic shopping bag, and handed the serial-killer title to Fred, guessing that it would appeal to him more than the Mind Body Spirit ones.

  “I meant to pick that one up. Mind if I borrow it?” Fred asked, discarding his newspaper.

  “Sure,” Helen sighed.

  “That’s a bit of a joke, isn’t it?” Fred said.

  “What?”

  “You reading a book called Perfect Health while eating crisps and downing rum!” He broke into a hearty laugh.

  Sarah couldn’t help but laugh at the paradox.

  “Well, I have to read it first, to see what the principles are.”

  “I could be wrong, but I doubt there’ll be a section advocating the ‘alcohol and fried-food diet’!” Fred popped another battered prawn into his mouth.

  Helen took out some of her magazines and put them over the books, in an attempt to shut Fred up. Unfortunately, she hadn’t realised a food magazine was top of the pile.

  “I wouldn’t have put you down as a cook, Helen,” Sarah said as she turned the food magazine towards her.

  “I like cooking!” Helen was starting to feel Sarah and Fred were ganging up on her. “Besides, Gordon Ramsay is on the cover – he’s a sex-god.”

  Sarah and Fred looked at each other, to make sure they had heard her correctly.

  “His face is a Scottish Highlands roadmap! Am I right, Sarah?”

  Sarah pretended to be preoccupied with her phone.

  “His face adds to his character. Plus he’s got this smouldering fire inside him, never mind his body.” Helen looked at Fred’s gut. “Kept me awake for hours the first time I saw him take his kit off on TV.” She downed the last of her drink as the lounge staff announced that their flight was boarding.

  “He does have a good body,” Sarah conceded.

  “And he can cook and he’s straight. This feature-length article on him is all I need to guarantee sweet dreams, all the way to Hong Kong. Who needs Playgirl when you’ve got Mr Ramsay?”

  Sarah laughed but Fred didn’t look so happy. He forcefully pushed Helen’s book into his briefcase. As Helen bent down to pack up her things, her silky blouse fell away from her body exposing the top of her breast and a glimpse of red lace. Fred’s eyes popped.

  “This is so exciting!” Sarah exclaimed.

  “Exciting it is, Sarah. Exciting it is indeed,” Fred said, adjusting his trousers before he stood. He followed his staff as they walked to their plane.

  Hong Kong bound.

  Chapter 8

  The Eden team silently climbed into the back of a black limo, feeling a little worse for wear. Hong Kong airport is probably one of the best in the world: clean, efficient, running with clockwork precision. Unfortunately, though, reality hits once passengers leave the air-conditioned terminal building and are hit with a blast of tropical air and sunlight, a combination that serves to heighten the pain caused by too many cocktails served at 33,000 feet.

  Helen reasoned it was the altitude rather than the free-pouring measures that made those few drinks so potent. She made sure she had her trusty shades at the ready once more, with the dual purpose of easing the pain of the early-morning sunlight and covering her bloodshot eyes.

  Sarah wasn’t in the mood for talking. She took the window seat in the car so she could grab her first glimpse of the city. The car felt as though it was gliding silently along the motorway. The heavy doors muffled any outside sounds and darkened glass prevented unwanted eyes from looking in.

  They drove across a tall suspension bridge and the majestic volcanic peaks of Hong Kong Island came into view. Sarah’s pulse quickened. It was as though she had stepped through the back of an old wooden wardrobe, and was seeing Narnia for the first time. Hundreds of boats of all sizes were in the water below them. It looked as though they might collide
, as each one was travelling in a different direction, determinedly focused on its destination. However, it was an orderly chaos and they glided past each other effortlessly.

  Sarah spied a freighter ship weighed down with steel containers. It occurred to her that one of them might hold stock bound for Eden stores. She did a mental calculation. It took twelve weeks for goods to arrive in the UK by sea. Then another three weeks to clear customs and for road distribution to the Eden central depot. Sarah counted the weeks off on her fingers but couldn’t remember if she was on her third or fourth hand-count. Once in the depot, goods were picked and packed: the ratio of small sizes was higher for the city-centre stores, with provincial towns requiring a greater amount of larger sizes – the bums getting bigger the further away from a city they were. Only then were the garments delivered to the individual stores. So ships leaving Asia now, in September, were carrying next spring’s stock.

  She sat back into the seat. The designs on board those ships weren’t hers. But next year, the ships sailing away from Hong Kong Island would be carrying Sarah Ross’s creations.

  She glanced at Helen, who was dozing, her head leaning towards Fred’s shoulder. Fred didn’t appear to notice: he was absently staring out of his darkened window while talking into his BlackBerry.

  “Yes, Mr Lee, we’ll be with you within the hour. We’re just going to drop our bags at the hotel, then hop on the MTR over to your office.”

  Sarah didn’t know what an MTR was, but she guessed it wasn’t a limo, to which she was getting rather accustomed.

  Fred pocketed his phone and shifted slightly, so that Helen’s head was now resting in the hollow of his shoulder rather than on the bony bit. Though there wasn’t much that was bony about Fred, not that the eye could see anyway.

  The limo arrived at the Excelsior Hotel, in Causeway Bay. Three red-uniformed doormen approached the car before it stopped. Two of them pulled an oversized brass suitcase trolley towards the car. The other doorman’s white-gloved hand opened the passenger door.

  “Welcome to the Excelsior,” he said, tipping his peaked, gold-braided cap.

  Stepping out of the air-conditioned car was like going from a plunge pool into a sauna. Two more doormen pulled open heavy glass doors in unison, ensuring their arriving guests didn’t break stride as they entered the hotel’s opulent lobby.

  At reception a dark-suited woman approached them. “Welcome back to the Excelsior, Ms Devine. I’m Ms Lynn, your hospitality manager. As a sign of our appreciation for your continued patronage of our hotel, we have upgraded you, and your colleagues, to executive rooms with a harbour view. May I escort you there?”

  Helen walked with her personal escort, looking every bit a VIP, despite the long-haul plane ride.

  Sarah noticed, apart from being immaculately dressed, the guest-relations woman had the shiniest dead-straight, bob-cut. The Asian’s hair obviously didn’t suffer from the humidity problem.

  Exiting the lift on the thirty-first floor, they agreed to meet back in the lobby in twenty minutes and went their separate ways.

  Helen being the hotel’s most regular guest from the Eden team, Ms Lynn accompanied her to her room.

  “Breakfast is being served in the executive lounge,” she said as they walked. “Would you like me to take you there first?”

  “No, thanks. I have to get to a meeting on the Kowloon side.”

  “That is a pity. But cocktails and canapés are served there every evening so perhaps you will have time to enjoy it later.” She inserted the key card to open the door. “Everything in the lounge is complimentary to guests of the executive floors of course.”

  The door opened to reveal a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Victoria Harbour and the Kowloon Peninsula. Although Helen had seen the view many times, she still felt a tingle of excitement on the first glimpse.

  “The New York of Asia,” she said. “It never fails to take my breath away.”

  Ms Lynn nodded. Smiling, she gave Helen her business card, with the customary two hands, and left the room, aware of the fine line between customer service and intrusion.

  Helen stood and watched the activity on the harbour. She didn’t sit on the couch that fitted snugly into the window embrasure for she knew she’d find it too hard to get up again. Instead, she did her usual routine of investigating the bathroom and the freebie toiletries.

  Hanging on the door of the large marble bathroom was a long fluffy white bathrobe, Excelsior Mandarin Oriental Hotel embroidered in gold lurex thread on the breast pocket. Matching slippers would be left for her use in the evening during turn-down service. Helen was twisting open the shower gel, to have a sniff, when there was a gentle tap on the door. It was the bellboy with her suitcase.

  Within seconds of the bellboy leaving, there was another knock.

  “Bloody hell, can’t I sniff in peace!” Helen mumbled.

  She peered through the door’s peephole. A waiter wearing a mustard-coloured uniform stood outside with an oversized basket of goodies.

  “Guest relations!” the man called out.

  Sure there had been a mistake, Helen opened the door slightly, leaving the key chain on. The scene reminded her of Kill Bill, where a gun-toting, guest-relations officer tries to blow away Uma Thurman. Helen had a healthy suspicion of unexpected visitors.

  “Compliments of the hotel management, Ms Devine.” He proffered the wicker hamper, containing an array of exotic fruit, wine and chocolate.

  Helen opened the door to accept the gift. “And not a gun in sight! Thank you, I do love Hong Kong!”

  When Helen got to the lobby twenty minutes later, it was awash with people: a mix of businessmen, airline staff and tourists. She spotted Fred and Sarah standing at a side door. A tall, burly man in a dark suit stood at the exit. He had an ear-piece nestled in his ear, which he touched every so often, in a secret-service manner. He watched everyone entering and leaving the building. His counterpart stood overseeing things from the mezzanine balcony.

  “Why is there so much security around the place?” Sarah asked as Helen joined them. “Hong Kong is safe, right?”

  “Yes. There are the usual scam artists roaming about, but it’s no worse than any other big city. How’s your room?”

  Sarah’s face lit up. “Oh my God! I could just sit looking out that window all day!” she said, putting her hand to her chest.

  “Wait until you see it tonight when all the lights are on!” said Helen. “They say the view from the Kowloon side is better but I think it’s pretty amazing whatever way you look at it.”

  The street they were on was narrow. Everywhere were neon-lit signs, on and off, their blinking lost in broad daylight. The bleached-white faces of Chinese models looked down at them from massive billboards. Although Chinese writing was predominant, the English translation was clearly visible too. China might be the official ruler of the former English colony, but its Western influence was still very much alive.

  There was an American coffee house a few steps from the hotel’s side-entrance. Once stocked up on caffeine, the three made their way to Causeway Bay underground MTR station, just a few minutes’ walk along the road. On seeing the queue for the ticket-desk, Fred valiantly undertook to use the automated ticket-vendor. The station was thronged with office commuters. Sarah grasped her handbag tightly.

  “The MTR is great,” Helen said to her, noticing her discomfort with the crowds. “It’s much the quickest way to get to Kowloon. It’s trade week, the world’s rag trade is in town. Don’t be surprised if you start to see the same faces on the train, at the convention centre and in the bars.”

  “Will it take long?” Sarah asked.

  “Only about ten minutes. We go two stops, change train at Admiralty. After that, it’s just one stop to Tsim Sha Tsui.”

  “You sound like a local!”

  “Just think ‘Tim Sow Choy’ – say it very fast and elongate the ‘oy’ at the end and you’ll sound local too!”

  Fred swayed back to them h
olding three small cardboard tickets. “I just got one-way tickets. I thought we’d get the Star Ferry back, since Sarah hasn’t been here before.”

  “Ah, Fred, you big softie! Maybe you’re not just Excel spreadsheets and profit margins after all.” Helen affectionately patted his cheek, which caused Fred to blush.

  The train was as advertised: efficient, ultra-clean and swift. As with most public transport the world over, despite getting up close and personal with fellow-commuters, no one smiled or made eye contact. Some people wore white surgical face-masks. Sarah spotted more than one Louis Vuitton handbag adorning the shoulders of elegant women, who also wore flat shoes.

  At street level, Tsim Sha Tsui was an assault on the senses. Street hawkers descended on them, pushing cardboard pictures of jewellery, handbags and fake designer watches.

  “Louis Vuitton, Prada, Rolex, DVD!” they shouted, with mantra rhythm.

  Sensing Sarah to be an easy target, a skinny man sporting a thin moustache took hold of her elbow and steered her towards his den off the Nathan Road.

  “No! Not interested,” Helen interjected, regaining control of a terrified Sarah. “Don’t look them in the eye, Sarah – you can’t give them an opening at all.”

  Helen walked through the dealers, a mythical ghost through a wall.

  “I don’t like Kowloon,” Sarah said, quivering.

  The friendly smiles of the Excelsior were certainly not evident here. There was a bad odour and Sarah thought this side of Hong Kong looked a lot better from her hotel room.

  “Stay close to me!” Helen shouted above the traffic and throngs of people.

  “We’ll take the next right!” Fred yelled. “The Chinatex office is only a couple of minutes’ walk. The touts won’t follow us once we leave Nathan Road!”

  They turned onto Haiphong Road, leaving the chaos behind them.

  In the Chinatex office, a long line of introductions began, with a lot of smiling, bowing and handshaking.